by Talli Roland
‘Hello,’ Clare said to the polished receptionist at Langley Estates. ‘I’m here for Ellie’s baby shower.’
‘Oh yes, just let me ring Amanda. She’s organising the whole thing. Take a seat.’
Clare sank onto the plush leather sofa, eying the swank confines. She hadn’t been by in ages, and despite the downturn in the property market, it seemed things were on the up when it came to high-end properties. Bottled water and an assortment of posh-looking drinks chilled in a clear-fronted fridge, an espresso machine gleamed in the corner, and a glass-fronted bar with elegant bottles lined one end of the room. The place looked more like a lounge than an estate agency, but given the kind of properties Ellie was selling, Clare guessed clients would expect nothing less.
‘Hey there! You must be Clare. Thanks for coming!’ An enthusiastic American voice cut through the soft background music, and Clare glanced up at a tall blonde woman. Her teeth were polished and white the way only American teeth could be and her blue eyes sparkled; Clare could almost imagine her baling hay in a checked shirt and pigtails, straight from Oklahoma!
‘My pleasure,’ Clare said, trying to sound sincere. She was all for gift giving, but someone should have told this person baby showers weren’t the done thing here. And that was how it should stay.
‘Just hang on a sec, I’ll grab Ellie and the gang, and then we can head to the restaurant. I’ve got everything set up there. Too bad we only have an hour.’ Amanda’s face dropped, and Clare breathed a sigh of relief this wouldn’t last all afternoon. She was about to help herself to an espresso when a chorus of voices heralded Ellie’s arrival.
‘Clare!’ Ellie pushed through the surrounding women and gave Clare a hug. Clare squeezed back as tightly as the bump allowed, noticing that despite Ellie’s flushed cheeks, dark circles ringed her eyes. ‘Everyone, this is my best friend, Clare. Clare, this is . . . ’ She rattled off the names so quickly Clare hadn’t a hope in hell of remembering them.
‘Right, let’s hit Bonnington’s!’ Amanda linked arms with Ellie, and Ellie’s mouth dropped open.
‘Bonnington’s? You booked Bonnington’s? That’s my favourite.’
‘I know,’ Amanda responded. ‘I remember you telling me. Just wait until we get there and you see what’s in store. You’re going to love it.’
The women crossed King’s Road and walked the short distance to the iconic restaurant. Frequented by the Duchess of Cambridge and other A-listers, it was one of London’s top spots. Inside, dove-grey walls and cream mouldings made it seem a world away from the busy street outside. A crystal chandelier sparkled from the centre of the room, glinting off the shiny cutlery.
‘Come this way, ladies.’ The maître d’ escorted the group to a private room, and the women breathed a collective ‘ooooooh’ of approval as they entered. Far from the garish balloons and banners Clare had expected, the large linen-covered table was decorated with tiny blue and pink baby shoes, miniature glass bottles, and the smallest rattles Clare had ever seen. Off to one side, a cake—featuring a stork with a precious bundle winging its way across a blue sky—perched on an ornate table.
‘Put your gifts over there, everyone, and have a seat.’ Amanda’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure.
‘Thank you so much, Amanda.’ Ellie threw her arms around her co-worker. ‘This is perfect. No, more than perfect.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Amanda waved a hand. ‘I’m happy to do it, you know that.’
As the group settled into their chairs, a tiny pang of jealously hit Clare. She was Ellie’s best friend, not this Amanda character. Perhaps she should have organised something similar? The thought had never even crossed her mind. Ellie wouldn’t have expected it, she reassured herself, since showers weren’t de rigueur. Still, as she took in her friend’s shining face and the beautifully decorated room, Clare couldn’t help feeling she’d let Ellie down.
Waiters set tiered silver trays with tiny cucumber sandwiches in front of them, and Clare eyed the food with disappointment. She needed something to calm her stomach, and these poncy things weren’t going to cut it.
‘So.’ Amanda flashed her shiny teeth at Clare as she helped herself to a sandwich. ‘Do you have children? Is Ellie’s little one going to have a ready-made circle of friends to pal around with? I always think it’s great when best friends have kids about the same age. It’s such a life-changing event. When my twins were born ten years ago, I’d no idea how different things would be.’
Clare darted a glance at Amanda’s midsection. She’d had twins? It was hard to imagine her stomach accommodating two babies. Right now, the woman had all the curves of a diving board.
‘I know,’ Amanda chuckled. ‘You’re probably thinking I’m not old enough to have a ten-year-old, but I’m actually thirty-eight. And I’m going to start trying for another soon, too—I want to do it before I’m forty and become one of those high-risk cases, you know?’
Ellie swung to face them. ‘Oh, Clare doesn’t need to worry. She’s not going to have kids.’
‘Not going to have children?’ A sympathetic expression slid across Amanda’s features. ‘You poor thing. I’m so sorry—I can only imagine how hard that must be. There’s always adoption, but I’m sure you know that.’
‘No, no,’ Clare interrupted, before Amanda reached out to stroke her arm or something. ‘I don’t want kids.’
Amanda’s broad brow furrowed. ‘Don’t want kids?’
Clare sighed inwardly. This really wasn’t the time or place to explain her motives. ‘It’s just not in my life plan.’
‘But—’
‘Why don’t we get started on the gifts now, so we have plenty of time to open them while everyone eats and before we need to head back to work?’ Ellie cut in, and Clare breathed a sigh of relief. Besides the fact that they were here to celebrate pregnancy, she was beyond tired of having to justify her decision.
‘Oh, okay. Good idea.’ Amanda put down a sandwich, rose to her feet, and clapped her hands. Silence fell as the women looked up at her. ‘All right, ladies, it’s gift time! Now, we’re going to play a little game.’
Oh, God. Clare rolled her eyes in Ellie’s direction, sure she’d see a similar expression on her friend’s face, but Ellie was staring up at Amanda with a fixed smile.
‘Ellie is going to open each gift before looking at the card, and then she’ll guess who it’s from. For every one she gets right, she’ll add a ribbon or bow to this hat.’ Amanda brandished a hat fashioned from wrapping paper and plonked it on Ellie’s head amidst giggles from the women. If these kinds of games were typical of American baby showers, Clare could see why they hadn’t crossed the ocean. Still, she laughed and clapped along with the group. If Ellie was enjoying it, she’d try, too.
After a few rounds of baby blankets, sleepsuits, and soft toys, Ellie finally selected Clare’s gift. As she tore off the gift wrap, confusion settled on her face. ‘Oh, it’s a candle. Along with my favourite perfume, moisturiser, and bubble bath.’
‘Bet I know who gave her that,’ Amanda mumbled.
Ellie turned to Clare. ‘Thank you! I love this perfume, and that candle smells gorgeous.’ She kissed her friend on the cheek.
‘You won’t be able to light a candle with a baby around! And what a shame you can’t wear the perfume for a while.’ Amanda’s hair swished as she shook her head. ‘Didn’t you say last week strong smells make you nauseated? If you’re breastfeeding, you can’t spray on scents. Sometimes it puts Baby right off its meal!’ She gave a tinkling laugh.
Clare’s heart dropped. Perhaps she should have bought something for the baby, after all. But she wanted Ellie to know she could be a mum and her own person; it was okay to indulge herself, too. Maybe now was the wrong time to express that sentiment. And how was she to know perfume made Ellie ill these days? Not to mention that thing about breastfeeding.
‘I can still use the l
ovely bath bubbles,’ Ellie said. ‘Can’t wait!’
‘You’ll be lucky if you have a bath in the next six months,’ the woman across the table said, laughing. ‘I wasn’t able to get five minutes to myself, let alone a bath.’
And people wondered why she didn’t want to have kids, Clare thought.
Panic flashed across Ellie’s face before her nailed-on smile reappeared. ‘Well, I’ll look forward to using it when I can. Ooh, now who gave me this one . . . ’ Her voice trailed off as she picked up the next gift. Clare leaned back, letting the chatter wash over her. The way these women made it sound, having a baby was the equivalent of being locked in a cave without any creature comforts, enslaving yourself to another soul, and hoping you came through the other side intact. Ellie was about to undertake an epic journey, the likes of which Clare knew nothing about.
As she watched her friend ooh and ahh over—what was it?—some kind of nipple cream, she couldn’t help feeling yet again Ellie was slipping away from her. She figured it was only natural: parents were drawn to other parents whose kids could play together, just like that Amanda person had said.
She smiled vacantly as another bow was pinned to Ellie’s hat after Ellie correctly guessed Amanda had given her the gorgeous hand-knit blanket. Clare would always support her best friend and the new family member; that would never change. But it was definitely time to track down some child-free friends of her own, and if she had to start a club to do it, she would.
Later that evening, back in the comforting silence of her flat, Clare hauled her laptop to the kitchen table and cracked open the lid. How did one go about starting a club, anyway? She tapped her fingernails against her teeth as her brain spun. Logistically, it shouldn’t be too difficult: members and a venue were really all she needed. She’d work on finding people, then worry about a meeting place later.
First things first: she needed a way to spread the word to reach potential members. She logged into her Facebook account, thinking it’d be a good place to start. But one glance at her newsfeed showing yet more toothless wonders changed her mind. There was no point putting something up on her Facebook profile; she had to reach beyond her social network to find these kindred spirits. Lord knew they certainly didn’t exist in her own realm.
Clare leaned back and gazed at the screen, rolling her eyes at an advert in the corner proclaiming belly-fat loss in just five days. Yeah, right—and why were they targeting her? She glanced down at her still-flat stomach. For a thirty-nine-year-old, she was in decent shape. That was one benefit to not having a baby. Clare cringed, remembering her horror when Ellie had showed off her stretch marks, like a million wriggly worms burrowing under her skin. They’d fade eventually, but . . .
Hey, wait! Clare sat upright as an idea hit. She could create a Facebook advert for the club, targeting men and women in London and the surrounding counties. Facebook had a gazillion users, and it would be a great way to reach different contacts. Imagine all the new people she’d meet . . . and maybe a man? Edward’s face flashed into her mind’s eye, and a brief pang of grief speared her before she managed to push it away. They didn’t want the same things, that much was evident, and the sooner she accepted that, the better.
Time to move forward, she told herself firmly as she clicked to create a Facebook page for the club. She’d advertise the link to the page, and people could contact her there by posting or messaging.
The name of the page was easy enough—The No-Kids Club was short and clear—but what should she put for the “about” section? A club for men and women who don’t want children, she typed. Hmm, maybe not “don’t want children”, because that might limit the membership. There were plenty of women who couldn’t have kids for a variety of reasons, and they might be looking for a refuge too. Perhaps something like “a club for men and women with a child-free life” was better. Clare quickly made the correction, and then typed out the rest.
Tired of friends who can’t stay out late because they need to put the kids to bed? Bored with endless conversations about the best schools and potty training? Looking for like-minded people who won’t judge your childless life? Then post here or message Clare Donoghue to be an inaugural member of The No-Kids Club. Meetings will be held weekly at a central London location.
Not bad, Clare thought as she skimmed the text, then sat back and examined the page. Still pretty bare, but at least the basic scaffolding was in place.
Now for the advert. She clicked “create ad”, completed the necessary information, made a nominal payment (as much as she wanted to meet people, she wasn’t about to invest her life savings—she’d wasted enough on Internet dating), and hit “place order”. Done.
Padding to the bathroom for a Tums to settle her still-queasy stomach, Clare wondered what kind of people would respond. Surely there must be legions of well-adjusted, child-free individuals like her, looking to meet similar souls. Well, once the advert went live, she’d find out.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Excuse me! Miss!’
Anna Nelson glanced up from the box she was unsuccessfully trying to open with a pair of scissors and stifled a sigh. At this rate, it’d take all morning to get the stock sorted. Only 10:00 a.m. on a Monday, and already it felt like half of Muswell Hill had been into the bookshop, dragging their progeny behind them.
A customer with expensive-looking sunglasses holding back honey-coloured hair loomed over her. Beside the thirty-something woman, a curly haired boy clutching a gleaming scooter was already dismantling the display of books Anna had carefully co-ordinated first thing that morning.
Anna pasted on a smile and clambered to her feet, brushing bits of cardboard box from her tailored trousers. Days like this, she thanked her lucky stars the job was only part-time. ‘Yes?’
‘Milo and I are looking for the latest book in the Terrible Tom series. Milo! Get down!’ The woman rolled her eyes at Anna instead of pulling Milo off the bookshelf he was attempting to scale with the determination of a Sherpa bound for the summit of Everest. ‘You can’t keep them under control at this age! It’s a crazy time, isn’t it?’ She shot Anna a smile, clearly expecting Anna to share her commiserations. Why did women of a certain age always assume that similarly aged women had kids, too, Anna wondered? And even if they didn’t, that they found children’s bratty antics sweet and endearing?
Anna quite liked kids—well, those who didn’t destroy an hour’s work in ten seconds. She loved cuddling babies or even babysitting every once in a while, but she’d never thought of having one of her own. So when Michael, her husband and the love of her life (a cliché, yes, but he really was) had made it clear children weren’t on his agenda, Anna had been perfectly fine with that.
Six years on, and she still was; no maternal twinges for her. Things might have been different if she’d married a man who wanted kids, but she couldn’t imagine life without Michael. After watching her mum and dad rip each other apart in an acrimonious divorce, Anna knew she was lucky to have him and vowed their relationship would never hit the lows of her parents’. Giving up something she hadn’t envisioned in the first place wasn’t a high price to pay when she had her dream man.
‘The Terrible Tom series is on that table over there.’ Anna pointed to the corner of the shop where a neatly stacked pile of colourful books rested. She gave it about thirty seconds before Milo knocked them onto the floor.
The mother nodded her thanks. ‘Come on, Milo!’ she rang out in a high falsetto, trying to extricate her son from the bookshelf onto which he was clinging. She looked back at Anna and smiled. ‘That’ll keep him occupied for the rest of the afternoon.’
Anna watched them head off towards the books. How on earth did people with children have time to talk to their partners, let alone ensure the relationship was on an even keel? God knows making everything run smoothly at home on top of her job here was more than enough. Add a kid to the mix, and Anna wasn’t sure she could
keep it all up. Her co-workers often lamented how they made it out child-free just once a year or that they hadn’t had sex for months, and she could only shudder.
Granted . . . Anna chewed the inside of her lip as she watched Milo tear a page from the book in his hands. When was the last time she and Michael had made love? And forget making love, when had they last gone out together? Michael worked long hours as a software engineer, and lately his idea of a fun night seemed to be a virtual assault on the population of Mars, or whatever video game he was obsessed with these days. Anna often tried to coax him away with suggestions of tickets to a West End show, a football match, and even a speed boat down the Thames. But each time, Michael had patted her back, said ‘some other evening’, and turned towards the telly. Anna had nodded, telling herself he just needed a good night’s rest.
But a good night’s rest had become a good year’s rest! Fear ran through her. Were they turning into one of those boring couples who never did anything, never went anywhere, and had nothing to say to each other? For goodness’ sake, they weren’t even in their mid-thirties, yet the most exciting thing they’d done together recently was purchasing a new rubbish bin from Homebase.
Anna tapped her foot as her mind spun. Maybe she’d been trying too hard with her suggestions. Something closer to home might do the trick—a film or even a walk on nearby Hampstead Heath, like they used to. A return to simpler pleasures would be just the ticket, she was sure. Her heart lifted. She couldn’t wait to get home now!
A woman dragging a scowling toddler approached, and Anna sighed. First, though, she had to face the rest of Muswell Hill’s Miniature Mussolini Brigade.
